Storyteller
by Iago Emilia
Summary: In a post war world where citizens are expected to accept what they are told, Hermione goes looking for answers: in an imprisonment camp from no other than Severus Snape, the one person who's memory has not been tampered with. HG and SS friendship.


**Storyteller**

_By: Iago Emilia_

_Chapter One_

"But a bird that stalks  
down his narrow cage  
can seldom see through  
his bars of rage  
his wings are clipped and  
his feet are tied  
so he opens his throat to sing."  
--Maya Angelou, "I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings"

Granger stood up with the quiet grace that she had possessed in school and had made her so difficult to break down. I'd gone too far when I'd commented on her scars, no doubt acquired during the war. Some of them were cuts–identifiable by the slightly raised skin–and others were burns, which were also easy to identify by the tiny indentations in her skin, like premature wrinkles running like rivers along her arms and face. They'd been healed well, unlike mine, but I of all people knew the scars ran deeper than that.

There was no cutting comment, not even the satisfaction of a hurt expression. It wasn't necessary; she was in control, we both knew it, and there was no reason for her to tip her hand. Her visit was the first break in the monotony of this entrapment for several months, and I found it unfortunate that it had to end so soon. The room we were placed in was comfortable. A window spanned the length of the opposite wall, the chairs were comfortable, and it was cooler than the moist heat of summer in England.

"Wait, Granger, I'm ready to consider your offer."

She doesn't turn, simply stands there with her hand on the door before saying, "Why? I came here out of courtesy, because you were my teacher. Other people will spin me the same tale, and without the sporadic abuse."

"No one can tell you the same story that I can. I served at the right hand of the Dark Lord's side. I've witnessed him at the height of power, and at the lowest point of his search for it. And I'm still sane," she's turned now, and curiousity is peaking in her eyes. The desire for knowledge is a dangerous thing, as I very well knew, "Nearly as long as that, I've been a member of the Order. I can reveal an outsider's view of both sides. What about it, Granger, do you want to hear the story that was never told?"

"Fine," she said. I could tell I'd set her off balance by the way her eyes gleamed and the slight shake of her voice. Clearing her throat, she attempted to reassert who was in charge, "but I'll lead the interview."

I inclined my head; it didn't matter, I detest useless chatter.

"Let's begin with the night you murdered Dumbledore."

Blunt, as always, but in this case I believed that it was done on purpose. Such a statement was meant to evoke emotion, and prove her slightly naive theory that there was good in every single person. Unless, she would argue, they removed their soul. I told her that I thought she was trying to evoke an emotional response, not in so many words.

"I did not murder Albus Dumbledore."

Her eyebrows shot up and her quill twitched nervously in her hand, "Are you trying to say you're innocent?"

"Of course not, that ship has long since sailed. Tell me, is there such thing as appeals now?" She shook her head, face taking on a slightly bitter appearance. "So, you see that there's no purpose it could serve."

The young woman opened her mouth and I cut her off before she could ask the pointless question, "'Murder implies premeditation. I had a hand in his death, yes, but I hardly planned it and did so in cold blood."

Suddenly I stopped, my eyes narrowed at the young woman. I'd overestimated my own indifference to the situation. My own situation was influenced, much as hers was, by a desire for knowledge. However, I'd never been like Granger in her desire to stockpile the information, because I not only loved knowledge but information, also. The fluidity, the way it passed so easily from one to another, the way it was all there for the taking (as a Slytherin, I could particularly appreciate this fact). Anyway, the point was that in my desire to share information with my former student, I'd not thought out the situation. Mentally, it took restraint for this not to be physical as well, I drew back and reevaluated. That was the story she wanted to hear -- and no one pays for what they can get for free. Although I did not yet know what I wanted from her, there was bound to be something.

"That story should come last," I explained. She knitted her eyebrows together and I could see the wheels turning in her head, "for chronology's sake."

"So, where do you want to start?"

"If not the end, then the beginning, of course."

"Let me guess: Severus Snape was born on a dark and stormy night on Halloween evening . . . no, better yet, midnight . . ."

"To a woman who was a vampire and a man who was a troll," I met her droll tone, though there was a slight smile on my lips. It surprised me, and, frankly, it felt foreign to me after all these years locked up in this place. The feeling of dissociation with an emotion in your own body or a physical reaction is highly disorientating. My face now still once again I said, "Yes, I'm aware of the rumors that circulated, Miss Granger."

She looked embarassed but smiled. The smile made her look young, but it was warped by her scars and the hardness of her eyes. It was like looking at the past through a bit of broken glass.

Clearing my throat, I continued, "Like any witch or wizard, the past lies heavily on my. My story, and events that shaped me, began before I was born. My mother was a bride of the war against Grindelwald. No, of course you wouldn't know about that, let me explain. During that time, after Dumbledore had killed the greates wizard who ever lived, there was a mad rush to get out of the Wizarding World. The pureblood families, the pillars of society, -- no, don't look at me like that, Miss Granger, it wasn't like it was when you were a child -- were crashing down. The Ministry of Magic, inept even back then, spent most of its resources protecting the Muggle population. _That_ is when the distinctive split appeared between the two populations. In a way, witches and wizards were being kept in a sort of broad concentration camp.

Women were the only ones who could get out of the Wizarding World in any legitimate way. If they could marry and get pregnant before the Ministry discovered what they were up to, the child would bind them into a nuclear family. This loophole was first discovered by Biannica Bloostar who sent out the message through a small, but popular, woman's magazine. An unexpected number of women picked up on this; mostly, as she intended, educated, pureblood women. Biannica was a bit of a survivalist, you see, and she predicted that the entire Wizarding population would implode upon itself. Therefore, she naturally believed in saving the strongest. She also subscribed to the theory of matrilineal descent. She believed that power was developed in the womb and the disenigration of power would only come through Muggle women bearing magical children."

"Wait!" Granger laid her pen down that had been jotting notes. She looked slightly offended, "Why haven't I heard of this? I've read about the war against Griendiwald, and I didn't know any of this?"

"What did you read?" I asked, "Textbooks, I assume? Excerpts on the time period?"

"Which are accurate depictions of the time!"

I tried to figure out how to explain to her something that was gained by experience. "Let me put it this way, Miss Granger, when you came here, you learned all you know about the wizarding world through textbooks, correct? And were they right? Was that information more valuable than your own observations? Or what you learned from your elders?"

She paused, bit her lip, shook her head, stopped, and then shook it again, more fully. "No, they were written after the fact, more often than not by people who didn't experience it . . . they tended to be idealistic."

"Exactly. If you want to know the truth about any time period, you read biographies. Several of them."

I smirked when I saw her writing what I had said down on her Muggle notepad. Granger looked at me sheepishly and then resumed the interview, "So, your mother . . . Eileen Prince . . ."

"Yes, well, she came from a prominent pureblood family, and in this case, her mother was the clever one. A feminist who was fighting on the front lines during the war against Griendelwald. I don't know which side -- documents are mysteriously missing this information -- but I assume that she must have been on the dark side because if she's been on the side of the light, they would have trumpeted it. Anyway, she went scouring the Muggle world under the pretence of working to keep the lines blurred and there she met Tobias Snape. Tobias was a steel plant worker, a good job back in those days, mind you, when the economy was fickle with business men. My grandmother sincerely thought her daughter would be taken care of. Well, they eloped, her mother playing it off like Eileen had ran away.

As per her mother's proposal, the young couple got pregnant within the first month of their marriage. Eileen was depressed with her new, harder life out in steel country. Usually, other women from the town would have helped her with her work. However, she was hardly a favorite among the people of the town who saw her as a snob. The work, coupled with her own refusal to take proper care of herself, led to many miscarriages. Eileen, to avoid the Ministry, often got pregnant again before she'd had time to properly mourn the loss of her previous child.

My grandmother stepped in eventually and took her granddaughter to a small cottage a few miles away from Spinner's End. Under her mother's expert care, she carried me to seven months and gave birth to a fairly healthy, if somewhat unattractive and fussy child. With the air of someone finishing a distasteful job, my grandmother dropped my mother and I off at Spinner's End.

As it turned out, Tobias was an alcoholic, something he'd conveinently left out when speaking to Eileen's mother. He'd thought, well in his words, 'Ely's mother looked like a real loaded lady'. I suppose he thought he'd be getting a fair share of her inheritence, but all he got was two new dependents who needed his salary to get by. Sure enough, when the rest of the economy experienced a downturn, they let him go, considering his attendence was spastic and when he was there, he had a tendancy to fall asleep on the job or get in fights. Unable to face my mother and her scorn, he took off.

The first time he resurfaced, I believe I was six years old, or perhaps it was before that and I simply don't remember. Eileen raised an eyebrow at her husband, and he'd been sheepish. Tobias had a paycheck in his pocket that he offered her, for peace or room and board, I don't know. It'd been a hard few years, I suppose. I remember that she'd worked in a textile factory and had always had an unhealthy look about her. You know, drawn face and a hacking cough from the hard labor and poor working conditions. Needless to say, the momentary financial security thrilled her. We had a wonderful dinner of roast beef, bread, and fresh milk, and for a few weeks we all had a grand time playing house.

Of course, it wasn't meant to last. Eventually, he messed up and this time did come home to face Eileen. Naturally, she was furious, especially considering her sense of entitlement. She received her first beating from him on that day before he took his leave, surely wanting to avoid any sort of reprisal from her parents or the law. This pattern would continue until I was eleven years old and left for Horgwarts, when _my_ story began."

I paused here, looking at her expectantly. Thinking I'd been perfectly clear, naturally I was surprised to see her brow furrowed in confusion. My tone nearly amused, I asked, "Do you have a question, Miss Granger?"

"Yes, I do. You never once referred to your parents as "Mum" and "Dad" or even "Mother" and "Father", it was always "Eileen" or "Tobias" . . . that's unusual, even for a grown man."

"Oh," I fell silent in contemplation. I'd never even noticed that I was doing that, I realized the words I was speaking were true, even as they came out of my mouth, "I suppose . . . I never really believed that they were my parents. They were so weak, and even at a young age, I had a sense of greatness. The two of them . . . they were attempting to hold me down. My mother was disappointed with me . . . I was a boy, hardly the company a pureblood woman wanted. It may not have been as bad if I'd been an attractive child, but I was rather homely. And my father thought I was too fragile, lacked what it took to be a real man. I assumed it was their own fault, they simply could not see what I already _knew_. So I did what you do when something is holding you down: I disconnected myself from it."

"That's . . . harsh."

"As is life." And then I promised, "You'll hear more about that later on. It's not that important at this point. I'm only eleven here, remember. Like most eleven year olds, I'm still an innocent."

"So," Her eyes peaked with interest, "your first time in Hogwarts . . .What happened?"

Annoyed, I snapped, "You continuously ask the wrong questions!"

Granger looked equally annoyed and in a moment of amitation, threw her arms up, "Well, what are the right questions? You've always been like this! Even when you were my teacher! You make people take these . . . these . . . _detours_ to get to the information they want!"

"Because most people don't _want_ the information they _need._ Now, just listen, Granger. Nothing _happened_ my first year, I simply met people, and that's what you need to know before we move onto the events that have led me to be here. My first year aquainted me both with the castle and the people in it, nothing more and nothing less. I'll go chronologically, it's easiest."

"Okay, fine." She snapped her quill against the pad of paper, looking rather petulant. I thought of telling her that pouting did not suit her, but decided that was no longer my job. I'd enthralled her, through sheer luck since my story telling abilities left something to be desired, however, it would not be wise to test her.

"As luck would have it, the first people I met were the future "Marauders". Somehow, I'd expected that at this great school, that was supposed to have the brightest of the bright, everyone would realize my greatness and give way for it. When I met these boys on the train, they made me angry. They were loud and brash, and worse _self-centered_. They thought they were better than me, and that made my blood boil. I got into a rather heated argument.with them, I wanted to see what they were made of. I tried to cast an _Incendo _spell on them. In theory, I knew how the spell was done, but I didn't have the power to back it up. They countered with a very simple Leg Locking Jinx, and I found myself immobile. And then I met the person who would have the most influence on my life during those school years. . ."

"Dumbledore?"

I smiled at her. A dark, condescending sort of smile, "Lucius Malfoy."

Granger sighs, "This isn't going to be a happy story, is it?"

"No." I got the distinct impression that she was losing sight that this had actually happened. I scoffed at the self-centered youthfullness that she had not lost: youths could not imagine a life outside, before or after, their own.

"'Sirius Black,' his voice was smooth and strong, unlike mine that was heavily accented and had the hints of a stutter. 'If you don't step away from that boy, your parents will have _you_ in a binding spell over Christmas break."

'They won't care about _him_, he's not even a _pureblood_.' "

Severus broke in here with a musing, "I was perhaps the only person who remembered that statement and got to see Black at the very beginning of his life and the very end." Shaking his head from those thoughts, he continued, "Lucius said, 'And then it must make you shamed to see that a Mudblood conduct himself with more honor than yourself'.

Oh, and how Black turned red at those words. He stormed off down the corridors, knocking down another boy who was at least two years his senior. Potter looked confused for a moment, looking after his future friend and scowling at Lucius. Eventually he followed.

Needless to say, I was as red as Black had been. Here I was, bound from the waist down, at the very lowest point of my young life, and in front of a clearly powerful wizard, both in personality and in the sense of his magic. That, and he had called me a Mudblood, and I was seething with rage and humiliation. And, I loathe to admit this even now, I was near tears.

'Are you all right?' He asked me distractedly.

'I'm fine, leave me alone!' I had snapped, hiccupping and betraying my own emotional weakness.

His eyes focused completely on me at this point, 'What on earth is wrong with you, child?'

I was blubbering by now, though, and was nearly inconsolable. Lucius looked taken aback, and looked around as though he expected some help or, more likely, someone to agree with his disbelief. Finally, he bent down and spoke quietly to me, 'You're embarassed. That's because you're proud. You're going to be a Slytherin, aren't you?'

I scowled at him, 'You called me a Mudblood.'

'Oh, you petulant child. That's what you are, isn't it?'

This was an amazing new idea to me. That I could be who I was, a "Mudblood", and still be great, still be a Slytherin. It was damn near revolutionary. Not to mention, it gave me hope that perhaps I could bring my mother with me on my journey of greatness. I didn't, like most children, believe that she had to take care of me. She'd made it well known to me that I owed her for her services and that is something I carried with me damn near until she died

He led me to a compartment where I met -- write down the names, girl, they come into play later on, though they aren't much now -- the rest of the older Slytherins. The Black sister, Narcissa and Bellatrix, as different as their looks implied. I never cared for either of them. Narcissa was condescending and treated me like a child: I had to put up with it until I got too old and she lost interest in me because it gained Lucius favor with her. Understand, Granger, that I was accepted into the group only on Lucius' order and I was treated for several years as his pet. Bellatrix frightened me . . . she was cold like Malfoy was, but not in a calculating way. She genuinely did not feel. If not in the group of people she was, her sociopathic tendancies would not have gone unnoticed.

Lesatrange, basically Bellatrix's consort, the only thing wrong with him was the lack of a backbone. A pretty nice guy when you got past the stutter and his compulsive neatness. They were betrothed from a young age and they'd been forced to grow up together. Bellatrix was abusive and, at best, indifferent towards him, and she was probably the reason he turned out so docile. I remember a story that Narcissa told about him and her sister. Bellatrix used to lure him into the woods with kisses and then chase him away with rocks or push him into the lake when she knew he could not swim.

Avery . . . he was weak, both in mind and body. Pimply, unattractive, sullen. He was only there because of his father's ties with the Dark Lord -- he was on of the first members, you know. There's a tale that says Avery Senior took his son when he was just a babe and held him before Voldemort, saying that the boy belonged to him, a gift for he and his wife. Vivid imagination, that boy, very creative soul, he wanted to be an astromener, but his parents didn't think it was a worthwhile profession.

The Carrows . . . a brother and a sister. The sister was extremely politically ambitious and the brother had no ambitions. She wanted it badly enough to attatch herself to Bellatrix and put up with her abuse. In the end, Bella did hand her over to her uncle who was a politician, after she'd grown tired and her toy had lost it's fight, of course. Voldemort was always a little intimidated by her, as was Bellatrix when they both joined the Death Eaters. Between the two of them, they deflated her confidence to nothing. The brother joined in sometimes . . . the two of them complimented him when no one else would because he'd never amount to anything that threatened them.

Crabbe and Goyle . . . a lot like their sons in the sense that they were big, strong, and slow. However, they had a cruelty about them that their children lacked. They weren't simply bullies, but genuinely cruel. The type of boys who set fire to small animals or feed them potions to see what would happen. I always disliked the two of them: they lacked the qualities I admired and held the ones I despised. Though I entertained myself tutoring them because if I made my insults high-minded enough, they couldn't figure them out."

"What about Dumbledore?" She asked.

Irritated, I replied, "If you insist. The first time I saw him was at the feast. He was blocked by taller kids in front of me, and my impression was that he was putting up a false front. I was a receptive child, and I sensed there was a part of himself he was hiding, the shrewd part most likely. He doesn't come into play until my fifth year.

The only other person of interest at this point is Lily Evans. She was possibly the only person in my year I considered my equal. All through my first year we competed for grades and points, never admitting there _was_ a competition, but fiercely competitive anyway. All the Slytherins hated her because she embraced the wizarding world as though she belonged there. It offended my sensibilities though, to think that someone like Crabbe or Goyle belonged in this school while someone as intelligent as Evans did not. This will be important later on, so remember this early impression I had of her.

Nothing of note, other than meeting those people, happened that first year. I have my suspicions even now that there was strings being pulled even then, but no proof or examples to show for my belief. For this reason, I progress to the summer of that first year. This would be the first time I would meet Voldemort, still going by Tom Riddle then, and my first taste of pureblood life."

"You met Voldemort when you were twelve?!"

I gave her a nod and opened my mouth to continue when the alarms went off. Voices shouted over the intercom that it was nightfall and that all prisoners were to be returned to their holding cells. A guard burst into the room and seized me by the shoulder. Not bothering to fight, I followed him and allowed the chains to be secured around my ankles and hands and neck.

Granger looked horrified, "Is all of that really necessary?"

She reached a hand towards the chains but I raised my hand the best I could in my bindings and stopped her. There was a silent moment when my hand closed over hers, my eyes full of warning. It was broken by the lead being jerked forward and my stumbling several steps.

Jaw set, she said, "I'll require to see him again this week. I have not finished my interview."

I looked at her questioningly and she nodded her head hesitantly at me. The guard, a brutally large man with a sloping forehead said, "Sorry, Miss, but you were just authorized by the warden for this one day."

"Mr. . . ?"

"Shoriden. _Officer_ Shoriden."

"Well, Mr. Shoriden, I'm authorized by Harry Potter to do whatever I like while I'm here. Do you know who that is? Do you understand what that means?"

The man had paled and his mouth went slack, "Miss, I didn't know who you were, Miss. I thought you were just a nosy reporter. Be begging my pardon, Miss. Please send my regards to your boss, Miss."

"He told me to do anything I need to do. I need to do this." I wondered if she understood the implication behind that, "I'll be back this week."

"Of course, Miss."

When we left the small room, out into the oppressive evening air, he gave me a harsh shove and then jerked me back with the lead. Presumably because he couldn't do so to Granger who'd put him in his place. The lights were bright up on the catwalk we worked our way carefully along. If I'd been afraid of heights, I know the officer would have crowded me to the left with the open air and fall of twenty feet only inches away. However, they'd learned by now that I wasn't afraid of much and resorted to brute force. I could see the dark outline of Granger in the office, but I knew she had a better view of me. I wondered what she saw. A ghost of the past? I smiled. I liked the idea of that.

_To Be Continued. . . _


End file.
